


In the light of day

by sdlucly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Derek, Bottom Derek Hale, Derek Feels, Derek is a Failwolf, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Derek, Implied Slash, M/M, Mates, Mpreg, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Post-Season/Series 02, Werewolf Mates, though not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:25:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdlucly/pseuds/sdlucly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here, he dreams. He's sitting on the counter, sandwich in hand. His pack is in the house, and his mate is about to arrive. Here, he can breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the light of day

**Author's Note:**

> I can't seem to write short to save my life. No, really. Nothing new here. Thanks to Ane, babe, I love you. This fic wouldn't have worked without you. And thanks to storydivagirl for the beta!

Derek's sitting on the counter, sandwich in hand, two more on the plate. He doesn't care that he had lunch not an hour ago. He's hungry. His house, his food, and anyone who has a problem with that can take a hike .

"Derek!"

"In the kitchen!" He calls out, making sure the hamburger stays in his mouth and doesn't actually fall onto the counter.

He looks over his shoulder at Isaac walking into the kitchen, grimacing as he does so. "We just had lunch."

Derek presses his lips into a thin line, eyes narrowing at he does so.

Isaac raises both hands, small smile on his lips. "Not saying that you shouldn't--"

"U-huh."

"Gonna go. Out. Right now." Isaac's laughing under his breath, even as he says, "see ya!"

Derek wants to say something else, but really, what's the point? He turns back to his sandwich, shifting a bit on the chair. Stupid, stupid chairs.

"Also," Isaac calls out, normal tone, knowing full well Derek can hear him. "Stiles is about to park. Bye!"

Derek grimaces, looking down at his two and a half sandwiches left. All sour cream and very tiny bits of strawberry, all cut up in perfect halves . Hmmm. Okay. No problem. He can--

There's a kick on his side, left side, just under his ribs. Derek places the sandwich back on the plate, running his left hand over the small protrusion on his already too rounded belly. He can feel one of the pups shifting, doing somersaults and probably trying to see if he can kick either one of his littermates, or just shifting positions. Whatever it could be. His other hand moves to his lower belly, rubbing slightly, slowly. Sometimes that does the trick.

He's so focused on the pups that he doesn't hear Stiles actually parking or coming into the house. Next thing he knows, there's an arm around his shoulders, another hand on his belly. "Pups acting up?"

Derek nods, leaning back against Stiles' chest, taking in a deep breath. He can still feel one of the pups stretching (probably) and his skin stretching with him, even if the pup seems to have more elasticity than his skin. God. He takes in another breath and holds it, hands still rubbing over his belly.

He hears Stiles making soothing noises under his breath. Both of Stiles' hands join Derek's, pressing slightly on his underbelly. Derek lets out the breath he was holding, the pup finally stopping his daily stretch regime.

Derek feels himself relax against Stiles, head tilted back, eyes closed and neck bared. Stiles kisses his throat, the side of his jaw, the corner of his lips. Derek intertwines his left hand with Stiles', the other moving to Derek's hip, holding on tightly, possessively. 

"Derek. Didn't you, like, have lunch like an hour ago?"

Derek cringes, but doesn't move. Stiles laughs against his neck.

*****

Derek lets out a slow breath as he sits down on the couch, one hand on his back and the other on the arm of the couch. Not that he needs help sitting down. Or getting up. Not at all. He's big, but he's not _that_ big. Yet. At least.

"Don't forget the chips!" He calls out, because if they all take their seats and end up forgetting anything, whomever is closer to the kitchen can go get it themselves. 

Derek leans back on the couch, molding it to his back. He loves this couch. This couch is his new best friend. He rests his head back against the top of it, eyes closed.

"We have them!"

"And the dips!" Oh, yeah. Nice, nice couch. Not getting up. Ever.

"We know!"

Derek snorts. Yeah, right. They are gonna sit down and they will have forgotten something. He just knows. 

"Coke or apple juice?"

Derek smiles. "Coke!" Both hands on his belly, he rubs the sides of it. The pups are quiet for once, so he'd like the sugar. Even if it wakes them up.

"You sure?"

He thinks he growls under his breath. Kinda. Maybe. A little bit.

"Okay, didn't say anything!"

He places both hands on top of his belly, shifts a bit to the side, getting more comfortable. Yes, best friend.

He can feel the pack walking into the living room, taking their different seats, placing the bowls and bags on the center table. Stiles sits on his left, placing a small kiss on his shoulder. Derek smiles, head still tilted back. "Your coke," he says with a nudge.

Derek takes it from Stiles, small smile on his lips. Erica puts on the movie before settling on the loveseat with Boyd. Isaac is on the floor (god, he will never understand why Isaac loves that place so much), Scott and Allison on the other two-seater. Jackson's taking the armchair, Lydia sitting rather comfortably on his lap.

Everyone's finally down, when the movie starts. He's taking a long sip of his coke when Boyd asks, "did anyone remember the guacamole?"

There's a collective groan, and Derek smiles against his coke.

*****

He likes the porch swing. Really, really does. The weather is finally starting to cool down, and at the right time, too. The pups are like his own little furnace, always sweating like a pig. He didn't think werewolves were supposed to sweat like that. Embarrassing, really. So he can finally sit here and enjoy the small breeze. Also, the swinging seems to calm them down when they are at their worst. God. He hopes at least one of them is the "quiet one", or, well, two if he's really lucky. But considering Stiles' ADHD, he's not banking on it. He'll be lucky if they aren't monsters, the lot of them.

The house is quiet, for once. Boyd and Isaac have lacrosse practice, and Erica had a paper due and was meeting with her lab partners. 

He doesn't know how long he sits there, swinging slightly, book in hand for once. The sun is setting over the preserve, and he should get inside in a bit, before he loses all the light.

The Jeep makes its distinctive sounds as it reaches the driveway, parking over the gravel. Derek places the book by his side, shifting, pulling down his large shirt where it has ridden up his belly. At least his navel is still on the inside.

"Hey there, you."

Derek smiles, tilts his head up for a kiss. Stiles places a hand on his cheek, Derek leaning into the touch, kissing him slowly, tenderly. Stiles hand moves to Derek's belly, rubbing slightly. The pups woke up not long ago, now shifting more against Stiles' hand, like they know his dad has arrived.

"Thought you had practice," Derek says, when they pull back. 

Stiles shrugs as he takes a seat by Derek's side. Derek moves his book to the armrest, before Stiles actually sits on it. "Skipped early. Figured we could take advantage of the empty house."

Derek snorts, shifts enough so he's partially resting on Stiles' side. Stiles lifts his arm, pulls Derek even closer, hands warm under Derek's arm, fingers caressing the top of his belly.

"Not empty for long."

"Oh, tell me about it. Erica will probably arrive any minute now."

Doesn't matter, not really. If Stiles doesn't push to go inside, then that's good. They can stay here for a little while, the wind whistling against the top of the trees. Derek doesn't mind at all.

*****

The sun hits his back, from neck to lower back, warm on his skin where the shirt has ridden up during the night. It was a good idea, moving the bed closer to the window. The sunrays feel great on him, not too hot, just right. Derek shifts on the bed, presses his face closer to the pillow, to the smell of mate, of pack and home. 

He doesn't want to open his eyes. It's the weekend, they can stay here, just a little while longer. A lot longer. He buries his face, small purr coming out of his mouth without really noticing.

"God, you're beautiful."

Derek blinks, not really wanting to, but Stiles voice forces it out of him. He opens his eyes, looking up at Stiles standing in the doorway that leads to the in suite bathroom, leaning against the threshold. He's wearing nothing but boxer shorts, because he's always complaining how Derek packs warmth like a bear for winter, like the pups do for him only worse.

It takes Derek a second to recognize the look on his eyes, all warmth and lust and love, brown eyes fixed on him, almost dilated. Derek's breath catches in his throat.

"Just. Look at you."

Derek does just that. He looks down at the way he's lying on his side, how the sheets have pooled around him, low on his waist (what's left of it), at his hips, how the shirt has ridden up so much on the front that's barely covering the top of his stomach, his round belly naked and totally visible. There aren't stretch marks, and thank god for small miracles, but even as much as he tells himself _he's not that big_ , he has to admit he passed big about five weeks ago and god knows how many calories. His navel is still an innie, and he'll keep it like that, even if he has to tape it to make it so. He really does look like he has a basketball under his skin, and god, he still has two more months to go.

He looks up at Stiles, still staring at him, lips slightly parted, heartbeat rising fast.

Derek tilts his head, waking up more as he takes in the way Stiles makes his way back to the bed, hand reaching for Derek's belly. Derek gasps, breath catching in his throat, just as Stiles places a soft kiss on the top of the mount that's their pups. There's another kiss, then a lick, and Derek groans, back arching as much as he actually can.

"Easy."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Not happening. Not with the way Stiles' gripping his hip, tight, enough to leave bruises. Stiles helps turn to his back (not a small feat), to continue kissing his belly, soft kisses alternating with bites. Holy shit, this boy will be the death of him.

"Stiles--" Another bite, another groan, and Derek is so big he can't even arch his back like he'd want to.

"I'm getting there."

"Not fast enough--" Oh, God. Don't stop. Just. "Keep going. Please."

Stiles chuckles in the back of his throat, a throaty sound, even as he pushes down one of the two pair of boxes that still fit Derek enough. "Oh, yeah?"

Derek tilts his head to the side enough to look at Stiles, not over his belly, but around it. His hand reaches out to touch the edge of Stiles hair, wanting to grip it, but the angle is all wrong. "Yeah," he doesn't say, he demands. He thinks. Maybe.

Stiles grins at him, mouth back on his skin, and god, Derek can hardly even breathe.

*****

He's sitting in the rocking chair, in the corner of the room, both hands on top of his belly. He rocks himself with the tips of his toes, slowly, carefully. The room isn't painted, still smells like new wood and sanding. It's only white in color, only primed after they finished it when they redid the house. 

The girls have color palettes, and trimming ideas and applications for the walls, and Derek is pretty sure he heard something about drawing clouds on the ceiling. He really, really doesn't want to know. The girls can do whatever they want with the room, as long as there's a crib in there where the pups can sleep. The girls are also obsessed with the clothes. Derek keeps telling them that they still have time (almost two months time), but they say that the colors have to be coordinated and god knows what else. He just wants his pups with clothes, that's it.

"Derek?"

Derek thinks about standing up, but really, that's just too much work. "In here!"

He hears Stiles stomping his way up the stairs, and really, Derek's worried about his kidneys, with that heavy step.

"Where?"

"Here!" Derek places both feet on the ground, hands on the armrests of the rocking chair. It's tricky, standing up, specially from the rocking chair, but he manages. Slowly, actually, it's pretty much the only way to handle it.

He's on his feet by the time Stiles' walking into the room. "What are you doing here?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Stiles--"

"No, really. If you're thinking about painting the room, the girls will kill you. They'll probably take the pups first, but then they'd definitely kill you."

Derek laughs, making his way to the window. "I have no doubt about it. And I'm not painting the room."

"Good. We barely have a say in the colors as it is."

He likes the choices Lydia showed him the other day for the curtains. He wants them in a light color, something yellow, that will let in the sun in the morning. He can see the trail that goes from the house, deeper into the preserve. He'll take the pups down there, to the preserve, and then to the small lake on the back of Hale land. He'll make Stiles make them sandwiches, do something like a picnic, enjoy the afternoon with them, with his mate and his pups.

"Derek?"

Derek looks over his shoulder, at Stiles. Stiles, standing there, barely two steps behind him, head tilted to the side, grin on his lips. Stiles. Derek can't help but smile back.

*****

He really doesn't like doing the grocery shopping, but if he lets one of the betas do it, they end up with tons of crap (and not even crap he likes). If Stiles does it, then they end up with nothing but tofu burgers and veggie wraps and greens and more greens. He feels the Sheriff's pain now that he's living it.

Derek places the first bag on the counter in the kitchen, before walking back to the car for the second bag. He thinks he won't be able to drive for much longer (the wheel isn't quite touching his stomach, not yet, but it's really a close call), but really, he thinks asking one of the guys to drive him might be as bad.

He picks up the second bag, and turns his back to the car when he hears the cocking of a shotgun. He can feel his breath catching in his throat.

"Turn around."

Derek does as told, turning around slowly, lowering the grocery bag so it's hiding his belly. It makes no sense, but he doesn't know what to do. He can't fight like this, not fight and win, no without hurting the pups in the process. He looks at the hunter, a guy probably a year or two younger than him, shotgun in his hands. He presses the grocery bag tighter against his belly.

"You have a code." Derek says, staring right at the guy, feeling his control slipping even as his claws start coming out. "We have a truce with the Argents. You can talk to them--"

"Shut it." The guy takes a step forward, and Derek tries to figure out if he could duck behind the car before the shot runs out. 

"The Argents--"

"I said, shut it!" The guy lifts the shotgun a little bit higher. He cocks his head to the side, glancing down at Derek's belly. Derek tries to press the bag closer, higher, but he's too big and the bag is not large enough. "Oh, I see. You're... _breeding_."

"We haven't done _anything_ ," Derek hisses, getting as close to the car as he can, placing the bag there. He'd drop it, but he's more worried about the guy getting spooked. "My betas are in school--"

"Teenagers!" The guy takes another step forward, and Derek moves closer to the car, to the door of the car. He doesn't think he locked it. "Biting kids to make yourself stronger--!"

"I'm not--"

"-- and breeding to--"

"Listen to me." Derek places his hand on his belly, thinks maybe, if he can just buy enough time, he could make it. One of the guys is bound to get home soon enough. He just has-- "We haven't--"

"I said, shut it!"

"We haven't hurt anyone!"

The guy smirks, head tilted to the side, another step forward. This is what he's always been afraid of, this exactly. The one moment when he's fucked it all so wrong, he can't even protect his pups.

He ducks behind the car even as the shot runs out, scrambles around it, trying to reach the house. If he gets inside, if he could just--

He feels the second bullet hit his back, before he hears it, can feel two more hit his left side. He reaches the porch, both hands pressing against his side. He can feel the pups shifting, and can't help but think that at least they are moving, they are moving, that's has to be something. He howls under his breath, low and pitiful, crawls up the porch steps, turns around as he does so. The blood is pouring from his side, hot on his fingers and palms, the pups slowing their movement.

The guy is closer now, barely five or six steps from him. He's looking at him like he's done his duty, killed one more monster.

He can feel the pups pushing against his hand, the blood pouring more freely, faster than his Alpha healing can fix him. He takes in a breath, blood choking him from the inside out.

"I could shoot you, again," the guy says with a smile, pleased at himself. Derek presses his hand tighter against his belly, extends his hearing, hoping for the distinctive sound of the Jeep, or one of his betas on their way home. He hears nothing but the forest. "But what fun would that be? This way... well, this way you die slowly. Because even your Alpha healing won't be able to fix three wolfsbane bullets."

He leans his head back, against the top step, hears the guy move away, a car being started, and how stupid is he, that he didn't hear that car, or smell the man or--

He chokes again, blood pouring down his lips. The bullet hole in his side isn't big, but he's bleeding a lot, too much. He lifts his shirt on that side, pain spreading through his belly, and he can see his veins turning purple as he does so, reaching his navel and almost the top of his belly. No, no, no, please. Just. He only has to heal the pups, just them. He can do that. He can do that much. He doesn't matter, but the pups, please, not the pups.

He presses his hands tighter against his side, focuses on them, on the four pups, on the way he can hear their heartbeats running, faster than he can count. He doesn't know if he can focus the healing, has never had to, but he can try, god, at least he can try.

He thinks about blood stopping, and muscles knitting together, vessels becoming whole once again. He thinks about tiny paws and ears, noses and eyes, and hears the heartbeats and wills them to keep beating, just one more time, just one more minute, someone's coming, please, they are coming, just keep on beating.

He thinks he hears Stiles' voice, calling his name, but he can't hear the Jeep, and knows Stiles would never run his way here. He feels one of his hands going numb, left hand, but doesn't think about that. He thinks he hears their heartbeats stuttering, three racing instead of four.

No, no, please. Stiles. Please. The pups. Just, the pups. The pups. Please. Stiles.

Stiles--

*****

It feels like he's burning, like hot melting iron being poured into the wound. Derek screams, or at least he thinks he does, throat raw and empty, words that make no sense, nothing but pain inside of him and the taste of failure in his throat. It's like the silver that can kill him, like wolfsbane and mistletoe. If he's waking up to the harsh reality that he's failed, so horribly, so stupidly, all over again, he thinks he'd gladly take it all if it would put him out of his misery. 

There are hands holding him down, holding him back. He screams. He wants to ask but the words don't form in his throat. He begs and shuts his eyes closed and hopes with everything he believes in that this time luck will have been on his side, that even though he might not deserve it, that a miracle might have found its way to him and they are here, with him, inside of him.

He's panting as he lays there, pain still in his side. It's a good sign, he tells himself, it might-- they might--

Derek doesn't know how long he lays there until he can finally breathe, gulping air like he's drowning, his claws coming out and piercing his palms. It's a lifetime and barely a minute before he's opening his eyes, glancing around. He doesn't feel his left hand, it's numb or dead or not there, but he can feel the movement of the limb and then he's pressing it against his side, his stomach--

"Derek--"

\-- only it's not there, there's nothing there. It should be. It has to be. But it's not and it's only flat and he can't, oh god, no, he can't--

"Derek!"

There are hands on his shoulder, shaking him, holding him down, he doesn't know. But it's the voice that cuts through it all, through the haze of red and pain and _guilt_. He opens his eyes and looks up at Stiles, face inches from his own, brown eyes blown wide and worried and so fucking young. 

He howls, left arm pressed to his side, to his stomach, flat and empty and barren. 

"Derek!"

He whimpers, pitiful and weak and young and so stupid. He pushes against Stiles hold and he's so weak, Stiles actually has to let go of him for Derek to be able to sit up on the metal table in Deaton's office. His left arm is still numb, and his side still hurts, but as he sits he can see his own failure, his stomach flat. There're the remnants of the wound on his side, flesh still torn and bleeding slightly. He presses against it, as hard as he can, and he groans in pain, doubling over.

Stiles places his arms around his bare shoulders, crowding into him, closer and supportive and Derek _can't take it._

"Derek, stop it. Stop it. Don't-- You're gonna hurt yourself!"

It doesn't matter. Not anymore. Nothing matters. He can't-- he lifts his eyes and pulls back enough to look at Stiles, who still looks worried and concern and he can't ask. He can't even form the words.

"What? What is it? You're fine. Derek, you're fine. It's healing. It took freaking forever but it's healing now--"

"The pups," Derek whimpers, face contorted. God, please. Please. Just this once. Just this one tiny thing, don't let him have fucked it all up. Don't let him have done this to the both of them. "Please, tell me--"

Stiles looks like he feels, wretched with the idea of it all, of Derek's failure. Derek shakes his head, lips pressed together, pain once again real in his breath, in his throat. No, no, please. He can feel his eyes stinging, claws in his left hand finding its way into his side. The physical pain is better, a pathetic consolation, never enough penance.

"Derek--"

"Did any-- Did at least--"

Stiles shakes his head again, tears in his eyes and Derek wonders if Stiles will ever forgive him, if he could ever hope to be forgiven. Derek hasn't forgiven himself for his family, and knows he could never ask that of Stiles. 

"Derek," Stiles says, whispers, voice soft and tentative, painful, like it's his job to comfort Derek when it's all Derek's fault.

"I'm sorry--" There aren't enough words, there never could be. Derek shifts, pulling his legs closer even if his side burns at the movement, arms finally lifting until he's holding onto Stiles' sides. His hands clutch at Stiles' shirt, pulls him as close as he can, presses against Stiles' chest. Stiles' hands, the ones on Derek's shoulders, let go of him for a second, before lowering slightly, right underneath his shoulder blades, not pulling him but not pushing him away either. His hands don't fall to Derek's hips.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry--" He presses his face against Stiles' chest, close enough he thinks he can feel Stiles' heart beating against his own, the same rapid pace, the same race they cannot win. 

He hides his face in Stiles' neck, opens his mouth in a silent scream. His throat is raw and it feels like it's been bleeding as much as his side. He presses his open mouth against Stiles' throat, the place where his collarbone hollows. He can feel the tears falling onto Stiles' neck, against his shirt, and he shuts his eyes tighter, white dots dancing in his black vision.

"Derek--"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm--"

"Derek," Stiles says, insists, pushing back at Derek enough that Derek looks up, straight at him. There are tears in Stiles eyes and Derek hates himself from having put them there. "There are no pups."

Derek cringes, as if slapped. He knows, god, he knows. He shifts again, moves, turning around so that his legs fall over the edge of the table, so can pull Stiles in between them, closer. He can't let go, not of him. Not now.

"No, Derek, listen to me--" Stiles says, pulls back, placing inches and air in between them. Derek flinches, glances down, cowed and ashamed. "Derek." Stiles' breath catches in his throat, tries again. "Derek, there were never any pups."

"I'm sorry. I never wanted--"

"Derek," Stiles says again, hands gripping Derek's shoulders tightly. Derek raises his eyes, shakes his head, he can't-- "There were never any pups."

Derek pulls back, confused, shaking his head. What? No. The pups. The-- "Stiles. I--"

Stiles' grip on Derek's shoulder tighten again, fingers digging into soft flesh. "There never were. They never existed. God. We aren't... we don't--" Stiles throws his head back, groans at the back of his throat. "Derek, it was witches. Witches. We fought them off but one of them stabbed you in the side," he says, hand reaching out to Derek's left side. Where the hunter shot him, where he felt the blood pour out of him, where he lost the p-- "She stabbed you. Deaton said--"

"That's not true--"

"I'm sorry, I really am." Stiles looks wretched, like Derek feels. Cold in his chest, a tightness in his throat. He feels like he's gonna throw up blood all over again. "He said the dagger was poisoned, some concoction that makes werewolves hallucinate, trip like on drugs. Derek. There were never any pups. I'm sorry, but--"

His breath catches in his throat. "No, no, that--"

"--it was all in your head. It was just a dream," Stiles finishes, whispers, like the words alone will hurt Derek, gut him open, slay them for all to see. He's right.

He shakes his head, pulls back enough to look down at his side. The wound is still bleeding, slightly, barely droplets but it shows that it wasn't a blade, it was something else that slowed down the healing. That's not the thing that floors him the most. His stomach is flat, yes, but defined. There's the muscle definition of his stomach, that he shouldn't have, not considering he started showing after nine weeks, his muscles softening, curving outwards with the pups. If he'd had them-- if they'd been there--

Derek pushes Stiles back, harder than he should have. He looks up at him, at Stiles blinking back at him, brown eyes rimmed with red, pained and compassionate. 

"You have to remember. Derek, you do remember. We were--"

Stiles talks to Derek, but he doesn't hear him. Can't quite understand the words, meaningless in a sea of facts and memories and images.

Stiles' hair is buzzed cut, cropped short, and Derek remembers his hair longer, curling just slightly at the tips. How it felt in his hands, clutched as he lay on their bed. Derek blinks and Stiles looks so young, sorrowful.

Derek closes his left hand into a fist, presses it against his side, pushes until the pain makes him feel and focus. He remembers... he remembers Isaac always complaining about Derek eating sandwiches when they just had lunch or dinner. Of Erica and Lydia color-coding the nursery, or Allison getting excited over clothes far too small to fit any human or werewolf. He remembers--

He remembers Erica and Boyd leaving, to try their luck somewhere else which wasn't under Derek's tutelage, poor as it was. 

No, no. That doesn't make any sense. His head hurts, from the inside out, and he presses both palms to his face, heels against his eyes until the pain flowers to the outside.

He remembers Boyd hugging him tight when they'd announced to the pack that they were expecting, that Derek was pregnant. Erica had screamed like a girl and Isaac had teased her for weeks--

Isaac, Isaac, his one last beta, the one that had moved in with him from the depot to the loft, the one that asked him that they might not be too many, but they were still pack, right?

Derek shakes his head, grimace on his face. God, no, no. He presses his hands tighter, closer, until his eyes hurts and his head hurts and he remembers Scott congratulating Stiles, hugging him tight, and he remembers Scott telling him he wouldn't be part of Derek's pack, that he was his own pack.

He remembers kissing Stiles the night they found out, letting himself be pushed back against the bed as Stiles whispered promises of forever into the still flat planes of his belly. He remembers Stiles shaking his head as Scott refused to be his beta, telling Derek that he could call him, if he ever needed help.

He remembers Stiles' brown hair and how soft it is against his fingers, under his lips. He remembers the way Stiles can kiss the corner of his jaw and his touch on his hips makes him melt wherever he might be standing. He remembers--

He remembers Isaac sniffing something different in the woods the last full moon, telling Stiles before telling Derek himself. Stiles coming to Derek's loft to tell him that he thought there was something there, hiding, biding its time.

Derek throws his head back and howls.

He hears Stiles crying somewhere near him but he can't, he just _can't_. He doesn't hear whatever it is Stiles is trying to say, he howls, long and pitiful and painful. He pushes himself off the table, staggers to his feet.

Stiles reaches out for him but Derek jerks back, shakes his head even as he looks around.

"Derek--"

The door to the backroom opens and there's Deaton, hand around the doorknob, looking sad and disappointed. "Mr. Hale," he starts, but whatever he wants to say, Derek doesn't want to hear.

His side hurts as he takes a step forward, pushes Stiles' hands away, makes him stumble back against the wall. He moves around Deaton, out of the backroom and into the parking lot.

He runs out of the office, into the woods. He runs until his side starts bleeding all over again. He runs until he can only hear the wind whipping against his face, hiding the echo of the heartbeats he can still hear in his mind.

He runs, and doesn't look back.

*****

Stiles pushes himself up from the wall, making his way to the door leading out to the parking lot. "Derek!" Stiles calls out, as loud as he possibly can. "Derek!"

It's pointless, if Derek wanted to hear him, wanted to come back, he would have. Stiles could have whispered his name under his breath, and Derek could have heard him, should hear him.

"Derek," he says, one last time, barely a word.

A hand falls onto his shoulder, and Stiles turns around, startled.

Deaton gives him a small smile, a stupidly patronizingly smile, like he knew all along that this was going to happen. Then again, knowing Deaton, maybe he did. "Mr. Stilinski--"

Deaton tilts his head to the side, and Stiles walks back in, leaning against the table. His hands grip the edge. The same table that Derek had been bleeding on for the past four hours, since he got stabbed. By a witch. Stupid, ugly, vindictive witch that stabbed Derek with a dosed dagger with a stupid potion that could, apparently, produce a trip so fucked up in a werewolf, they... they dream... God. He can't even think it, can he?

"Mr. Stilinski?"

Stiles looks up at Deaton. Deaton, who looks like he's been calling Stiles for as long as Stiles has been making a summary of his life in the past five hours.

"What happened?" He asks, and he knows his voice is sounding weird, high pitched. It sounds like he's freaking out, because he is freaking out. "He was bleeding! He was bleeding and he wasn't healing and you said-- you said--"

"I know what I said, Mr. Stilinski."

"You said it was poisoned! You said he could never wake up!" Stiles flails, waving his arms, as if trying to shake off the feeling of Derek clinging to him, like he's the only thing that makes sense. Like he's the one thing that can keep him together, even as he sobbed the loss of pups-- "You said--"

"You must let me explain." Deaton says, a tight pull on his lips.

Stiles shakes his head, folds his arms over his chest, hunching his shoulders. He can still feel Derek's arms around him, Derek's nose touching his neck, hiding his face in the hollow of Stiles throat. Like he'd done it before. Like he'd done it a hundred times.

Derek wasn't even surprised it was him that was waiting by his side, when it should have been one of his betas. It was supposed to be Isaac that would take first watch, stay with Derek until tomorrow morning, when Stiles would come over before breakfast until third period. If Derek wasn't awake by then, then Scott would relieve Stiles and go back to school for sixth period Chem, only because if Scott missed class again, and the quiz they were supposed to have, the new teacher would fail him.

It was gonna be Isaac until Deaton had said that maybe Stiles should stay and Isaac should take second watch. Like Deaton knew Derek would wake up in a few hours, long before Isaac would return.

Stiles turns to look at Deaton, the man looking back at him. Like he knows what Stiles has been thinking about. Like he knows what he's thinking about now.

"You knew, didn't you?"

"Mr. Stilinski--"

"You knew! You knew the dagger was poisoned, you knew!"

"If you would just let me explain--"

"Fine," Stiles huffs, anger in his movement. He folds his arms on his chest. "Explain."

Deaton gives him a quick smile, barely an upward curl of his lips. "You're right. I recognized this particular... blend of the poison, the combination of mistletoe and acorn."

"Acorn?"

"For dreams and... nightmares."

Yes, Stiles remembers. He'd been researching elements found in nature, with the pathetic idea of maybe if they were prepared, if they knew what they could be facing in any given time, they could prevent it. He snorts. Prevent it, yeah, sure thing, dude.

"I knew it, because I'd seen it once before. This specific mix seems to have a very pointed reaction in werewolves."

Stiles snorts, nodding as he does so. Yeah, it's pointed alright. "It makes them trip. Higher than a kite." Like a bad acid, like very cheap coke. God. 

Deaton smirks, there and gone in a second. "In a way. Under its influence, in the dream world, they can... imagine, if you will, everything they had once had and now lost."

Stiles blinks, taken back. That doesn't make any sense. He would have thought that would mean Derek would dream of his family, the family and pack he had lost in the fire. But instead he had dreamt of--

"Or," Deaton continues, of course he continues, "everything they wanted, and never thought they could ever have."

It makes no sense, Stiles thinks, shaking his head. No sense whatsoever. He couldn't. That would mean. No, just no. Stiles would rather not think about what that would mean. It's too. No, just no.

"What did he dream about?" Stiles asks, aloud, unable to stop himself. He turns to look at Deaton. 

Deaton shrugs, naturally, way too effortlessly. "I have no way of knowing."

Stiles frowns, head tilted, staring right at Deaton. Deaton holds his gaze, his eyes crinkling in the corners, as if in a smile. Stiles can't break his gaze, serene and certain, and in that second, he knows Deaton is lying. He knows what Derek saw, what he dreamt. And maybe he doesn't know the exact details, but he knows more than he's letting on. He knows enough, enough that he isn't saying.

Stiles snorts, shaking his head. Whatever. If Deaton isn't gonna tell him, there's no way he's gonna get it out of him.

But there is one thing Stiles can get from Deaton, from the way he's holding himself, from the tightness in the corner of his eyes. 

There are some wolves that don't come back. Or if they do, they come back _wrong._

And it's gotta warp your view, to return to a world that's no longer your own. Derek was only under for about four hours, and if the way he reacted to his flat stomach is any indication, then he could have dreamt entire months in between. If someone were to stay there for a day, it could give them years.

To return from that... to even try. Stiles can't even imagine.

And he might not be able to gather everything that went down, that Derek dreamt, but he knows one thing. One thing: the pups. By the way Derek was holding himself, his hand pressed so tightly against his stomach, the way he asked--

"Can werewolves--?" Stiles leaves the question hanging, not sure how he wants it to end. Because after all the research he'd done that first time, and the days he's gone on in a tangent in the intervening year, that isn't something that ever came up.

A part of him, hopes against hope that Deaton will take pity on him and actually give him a clue.

Amazingly, Deaton smiles, again nothing but a pull of lips, a curl in the corner. The smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Born werewolves can breed, no matter the gender, yes."

Stiles nods, letting out a soft breath. Okay, that answers one question. Two, actually, because he's sure that talk with Scott and Isaac would have been awkward as hell, but nevermind that now. At least it's an answer.

Which means. Okay. Maybe what he got from Derek's... words, and the way his claws had dug into Derek's side with such force, such anger, _guilt_ , that maybe it wasn't that farfetched.

After all, Derek has always hated Stiles' knack for reaching point blank conclusions from seemingly unrelated pieces of information. Stiles thinks it's one of his many, many hidden talents.

There's only one final question, that, as usual, Deaton may or may not answer.

"How did you know he'd wake up so fast?" Stiles says. Deaton had said it would take hours for Derek to wake up, and it's barely midnight. He keeps his eyes down, staring at both his hands. Hands that had clung to Derek's sides, Derek's hips, not so long ago.

The question is met with silence for so long that he's certain Deaton won't answer. Then Deaton takes in a small breath, lets it out slowly, as if it pains him. "Because to stay under," he says, as Stiles lifts his eyes to him, "you have to believe you could have it, that it was real."

Stiles feels his chest growing cold, his hands closing into fists. No wonder. Because if there is one thing they can always count on, it's Derek's belief that he doesn't deserve any of it, of whatever he had dreamt for himself.

*****

The sun is rising by the time Derek finally finds his way to the Hale house. It looks exactly like he remembers it from yesterday and nothing like he does from that morning. The house is nothing but ruins, a place waiting for a wrecking ball to hit it. It had been like that for the past seven years, for the past year he has been here. 

But it hadn't. It hadn't been like that this morning, in his mind. He had been here, walking through the front door, past the new hallways and up the wide open stairs that had been Isaac's idea. 

Only that's all wrong now, none of that happened. It was all a dream. A nightmare. Something he had lived but hadn't, something he now didn't want to remember.

He's panting by the time he reaches the porch steps, staring up at the house. There are walls missing and only a few of the windows remain, most of the panes of glass are broken or on their way to falling down. 

Derek closes his eyes for a second, takes in a deep breath. The house used to smell like them, like pack, like home and family and--

He opens his eyes in that second, tells himself that it was a memory, that it means nothing. He makes his way up the steps carefully, glances to the deck. On the left side, he can see the damaged wood, where it has crumbled down and would have to be taken out. The whole thing should be taken out. 

The new house had a deck going all around back, to what Stiles liked to call the backyard even though it was really the side. It would lead to the deeper parts of the woods. Stiles would sit there, on the edge of the deck, and wait for the rest of the pack to come back from what he liked to call their wolfy commune with the moon.

He pushes the door open, walking inside. It looks like he remembers it, and nothing at all. It looks worse.

He could try and pinpoint every single change, but he doesn't see the point. He doesn't even know where he's going until he's making his way up the stairs (watching the fifth and twelve step, because those boards are loose and if he steps on them once again, he's gonna fall to the floor), down the hallway. It's not the room next to the master room, he doesn't think he could ever take that room. He'd rather turn it into a study, or something.

If he were to take a bedroom here, if he were... he'd take the one on the left, second to last. It used to be Laura's room, and he wouldn't mind that, taking it for himself. 

But he doesn't walk into it. He stands outside the room next to Laura's. It's smaller than Laura's but it looks out into the backyard, out into the trail that leads into the center of the Preserve. 

The wood is charred, as is the rest of the house, but there are small slivers where it didn't seem to have consumed it as much, where you can almost see the brownish color it used to have, before. 

He touches the doorknob, places his hand against the hollow of the door, where it's broken down a bit. He pushes it open.

He takes three steps into the room, standing by the wall that leads out the door. He can't get any further inside, because the floor on this side of the house isn't structurally sound. He shouldn't even had gotten this far inside. 

It used to be Stephen's bedroom. There are still the remnants of the posters on the wall, of a bookcase he used to have against one corner. The bed isn't there, because the bigger things were taken out, at least some of them. The room apart from the bookcase, is empty.

He closes his eyes shut, leans his head back against the wall, hands closing into fists. He's tired enough that his fingers don't elongate into claws.

He remembers the bedroom, its white primed walls, the way it had smelled, waiting to be painted in the Lydia approved color. He remembers--

And he can't help it, his left hand moving to his stomach, the flat muscles, defined and hard when they should be soft, curving outwards in the telltale sign of pregnancy recently passed.

He slides down the wall, crouching down. His hands fall between his knees, unable to handle touching his stomach anymore. His eyes stay closed. He doesn't need them to see the room the way it should be.

After a while, he shifts, sitting down on the ground, back against the wall. He extends his legs, turns his face to the side. He sits there, hearing the sound of the forest around him, of small game going to sleep after the night, or waking up for another day.

He sits there, for hours. He's cold and numb, losing the feeling in his fingers, in his chest. He doesn't believe it's the weather.

****

Stiles doesn't see Derek for days after the. Just, after. Not that unusual, not really, considering they aren't really friends, and it's not like they are pack or anything. But, well, he thought... no, he doesn't know what he thought after calling out for Derek and Derek running off.

He doesn't know what he'd thought, but this wasn't it.

He doesn't tell Scott, or Isaac, certain that Derek wouldn't want him to. This is too private, too much of Derek's secret to be bared to the rest of the betas. 

So he goes to class, and lacrosse practice after school, and does his lab report and gives his History exam and gets his final grade in AP Calculus, A, so, all it's good.

Only it's not. Because Scott doesn't know and Isaac sure as hell doesn't, but he does. All he can think of is the way Derek had folded onto himself, had clawed his own side in desperation, in frustration. How he had looked when Stiles had told him there were no pups, like Stiles had struck him, the worst thing Stiles could possibly say.

He can't stop thinking about it.

He goes to meet Scott at the Vet Clinic after class on Friday, because they have their last English paper due on Monday and him and Allison on-off again thing is off right now. He knows Scott is trying his hardest not to focus on Allison and back on his classes, so Stiles figures, he could totally give him a nudge in that direction by reminding him of their papers due. And if he can totally use that time to pretend not to think about that thing that he isn't supposed to be thinking about? Then, well, two birds and one stone and all that jazz. 

When Stiles walks into the Clinic, Scott is talking with a client, a woman with a small poodle that could probably fit inside Stiles' backpack with room to spare. A woman that looks about seven months pregnant, one of her hands on top of her belly, the other around the collar of her dog. 

For that second, Stiles can't breathe. She looks huge, big enough to be ready to pop, and yet somehow he knows that she still has a way to go, like he has a magic eight ball about pregnancies all of a sudden. She looks, she--

"Stiles?"

Stiles blinks himself out of his stupor, turns to look at Scott, who's looking back at him with an eyebrow raised (very Derek of him), and confusion plainly written in his eyes. "Hey, you." He says, stutters, doesn't know what to say. "I just. Well. We were supposed to--"

"Yes, homework. Give me a second." Scott nods, turns to give the woman a small smile. "You could come next week, for Daisy's bath and--"

"Great. Thanks." The woman smiles, leaning back a bit more, shifting the hand on the dog collar for her back. "I might have to ask my sister to bring her, though, because next week I'll be bigger. And I don't think I can manage the drive over here just for her."

Scott chuckles, nodding as he does so. "I get it. Don't worry. Just tell her to ask for me."

Stiles doesn't pay attention to whatever they talk about, something about the dog, but he knows that he can't stop staring at her stomach. 

Can't help but wonder if Derek looked that big before. If Derek would put his hand on top of his belly as well, shift on his feet when the pups would kick, at his stomach, ribs, spleen? Could they do that? Kick hard enough that Derek would feel it, that it would hurt? Would he place one hand on his back, massaging the muscle that would probably spasm at the strain, or would he place both? Was he waddling? God, was he waddling?

It feels like cold water has been poured on him. Not was, not had. No, no, he never did because it never happened because it--

Stiles turns to look at Scott, flails his hands a bit, as if cut from its strings, tells him he'll wait for him outside and runs. He can't handle seeing that woman, thinking and imagining and thinking and no. Just no. Thank you, but no.

He hides in his Jeep, where there are no pregnant women, or werewolves, where there are no babies or pups or anything of the like. He just hides. He places his elbows and forearms on the wheel, hides his face in his hands. God. What was that? Why was he--?

He shakes his head. It doesn't matter, because in that second all he can think of are the pups. Pups, Derek said, as in plural. And he knows because he's done his homework, studied the research that same night. To appease his curiosity, he'd told himself. Just to get it out of his system. God, he even sucks at denial.

Because according to lore, wolves can have litters. As small as three but as big as seven, and holy shit, how does anyone get pregnant with seven pups? What about werewolves? What about De--?

Stiles has no clear idea of what Derek dreamt, but it had something to do with him and pups, and yeah, he can add two and two and get four.

They were together, somehow (and that's enough of a surprise, considering he would have never imagined Derek liked him enough to be friends, let alone more), and long enough that they had pups on the way. That Derek was far enough that he was showing, if the way he was touching his stomach was any indication.

They had pups. They were gonna be parents. Stiles was gonna be a dad. Holy shit, how did that happen?

He thought he was dealing. No, scratch that... he thought he didn't have anything to deal with because he didn't live it. He didn't remember. He hadn't lost anything. God, was he wrong.

They were gonna be parents, him and Derek. They were married. Or at least in a committed enough relationship to mean the same thing. They'd been together for god knows how long, that they'd decided to have kids. Or had they'd been unplanned? Had they just, kinda, been a surprise? A good surprise but a surprise nonetheless. How had Derek told him that he was pregnant? At dinner, like in some movies, making a fancy dinner and telling him, surprise, I'm pregnant? Or had they both waited in the bathroom for the stick to turn blue, or pink, or whatever the color?

Did they live together? Holy shit, did they live together at the Hale house?

Wait, what? Was the house rebuilt? Did they do that, the two of them? Or did anyone else helped?

Oh my god, did he dream about the pack? Did he dream about Erica and Boyd? About them returning? About Scott agreeing to be a part of the pack?

He tries to grip his hair and fails, and then groans because god, this is so screwed up. No wonder people don't come back from this. He didn't even dream it and he's thinking about it. He can't stop thinking about it. If he's this much of a basket case, god, how is Derek handling it? Wait, wait, no, is he handling it? Like, at all?

He lost the pups, which is bad enough. Can Derek handle something like that? Then again, can anyone? And what about the rest? The life Derek dreamt, the relationship, the almost marriage? The friends and betas and pack? Did he lose everything? 

Can anyone handle losing everything? Again. For a second time.

There's a knock on the car window that makes Stiles jump in his seat, turning around and trying to reach for the safety bolt of the passenger door and not even being able to get a grip on it, his hands are shaking that much.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks as he's pulling on the seatbelt. Oh, Scott. Sweet, not pushy Scott. Because Stiles is flailing a bit, trying to fight with his own seatbelt even as Scott keeps on staring at him.

Trust Scott not to bug Stiles into talking to him (not like Stiles, because Stiles has no patience whatsoever and he's very proud of that, thank you very much), not until Stiles has finished his freak out and feels like talking about it. And he is. Freaking out, that is. He's freaking out like he has never freaked out before. Not even finding out his best friend was a werewolf had him this riled up.

He waves it off, makes a joke out of it, says something about the teacher and the vet and a dog? He's not sure. It doesn't matter. Scott lets it go with a sigh and asks about the paper and if Stiles has started it because Scott was thinking about making it about Neruda instead of Whitman. 

Stiles tells him his opinion (he likes Whitman but he likes Neruda better, sue him). He pulls out of the parking lot and tries to count his breaths as he drives them to his house.

Really, he needs to get a grip. That and talk to Derek. 

*****

The house echoes. Derek didn't remember that, not enough. He's only been at the depot for three months and yet, he'd forgotten. It's the empty windowsills and the broken down wood.

It sounds like whispers and muttering, like dripping water in the sink and someone always opening a door.

And he remembers. He remembers how it sounded when Erica would slam the front door open and Boyd would pop open a can of grape soda. The sound of Isaac turning on the X-Box and Scott calling Allison.

And above it all, he remembers the sound of the Jeep making its way up the trail to the house, parking outside. Stiles making his way up the porch steps, opening the door and calling out for him.

He remembers, and when he closes his eyes, the house echoes it ten times louder.

And then falls silent.

*****

That night, Stiles dreams.

He dreams of another bed, of the sun hitting half of it every morning, when he'd sleep in. He sees bright colored walls, ceilings painted brand new white. The windows in the hallway are tall and wide, open. Through a room he can see a trail leading out of the house and into the preserve.

He can hear Scott making jokes and shoving Isaac, Isaac shoving back and ending up tumbling to the floor, the two of them, big puppies.

Boyd and Erica sitting on the couch, watching a movie.

He dreams of Derek, walking into a room, a hand on the top of his belly, the other on his back. He's complaining because the pups keep shifting and kicking and he needs to go to the bathroom, again.

Stiles turns to look at him, wherever it is he's standing. Derek smiles, barely a curve of his lips but it lights up his whole face, makes his eyes squint and he looks younger and so much more beautiful. He glows.

That night Stiles dreams. And the next night. And the next night.

*****

Derek stays in the house for a few days, tells himself he needs the space, the freedom of being alone. Just for a little while.

He goes to the depot long enough to get a change of clothes and leave Isaac some money for the week. He doesn't run into him, and that's a blessing. He doesn't think about what he might have said, about the differences between that Isaac and this one.

Being a born werewolf, the wolf in him has never been another entity. It's always been him, in him, with him. Now it's no different. He can feel his wolf needing the ground on his paws, and the purpose of a kill on sight. He turns fully, hands and feet changing into paws, face shifting into a muzzle. He howls as he runs into the preserve. He doesn't take any of the trails, choosing to go in between the trees, to follow his nose. He doesn't know where he's going, not exactly, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't have to think.

It's instinct that drives him, that makes him roam the forest, trying to find an unfamiliar scent, wondering who has trespassed his territory. He doesn't smell anything, because there were no hunters getting the drop on him on his own property. He makes his way to the trails, and he can't even smell the random hiker that thinks going into the preserve might be fun. 

He goes to the stream that runs east of the preserve when he gets thirsty, hunts rabbits and squirrels, the eventual deer, but no bigger game, there's no need.

He doesn't think about cubs following his paw prints on the ground, or teaching them to wait and leap, pushing them forward with his nose, or Stiles' frustrated face when they'd get home and they'd have blood on their muzzles. 

He stays like that too long and not long enough. He wishes he could leave Beacon Hills and return to New York. For once, he thinks running away from his problems would be the right call. And at the same time he knows he can't, not when everything ties him to this town. Laura always meant for them to return. They just needed some time away, to heal. To let go. But he never could have.

She's buried here, and so are his parents, uncle and aunt, and two older brothers. He can't leave this town and the memory of them behind. He could never forgive himself for yet another transgression.

By the time he makes his way to the trail that leads him to the house, it's been days and yet not enough, but his wolf is exhausted, and he actually feels the need to return to human form, to have hands and feet and opposable thumbs.

He stays outside for a moment, looking up to the house. He turns back human, standing there naked and for a second, all he can see is the deck going around the house, Stiles sitting on the ledge, waiting for him.

He makes his way to the small spigot on the corner of the house, proceeds to clean himself squatting there. If he thinks he can hear the rest of his pack still roughhousing in the preserve, just out of sight, he ignores it. What he can hear, no one has to know.

*****

Stiles asks Isaac about Derek, because it's been over a week and he hasn't seen him at all, not even being his creeper wolf self, standing outside lacrosse practice. He tells himself he's not worried, not really, but dude, if he can't stop thinking about it. If he can't--

Isaac, of course, is surprised that Stiles of all people is asking about Derek. But Stiles can do deflection enough that a couple of flailing limbs, a stutter or three, and Isaac sighs and tells him that no, he hasn't seen Derek since the witch thing, only to get Stiles to stop talking to him. That's not good. Until Isaac mentions that Derek did stop by the depot, at least long enough to leave him some cash. That means Derek isn't dead, so that's something.

And if he's not in the depot, well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know where he'd go.

He drives to the Hale house, tapping the edge of the wheel as he does so. He doesn't know if he should do this, and at the same time he knows there's no other person for the job. For one, no one else knows, and two, well, he doesn't think Derek might even consider seeing anyone right now. He might not even see Stiles either, and if he does, they might regress to body slamming against a wall. But Derek needs to talk, and if he doesn't talk, well, then they at least need to address the fact that they have a problem.

He parks his Jeep in the front, kills the engine and sits there. He knows for a fact that Derek can recognize the Jeep as it makes its way to the house, and if he doesn't want to be here, he can just leave. Nothing stopping him.

Stiles doesn't have to wait more than four minutes (he knows, he's counting), before Derek is making his way around the house, probably from the back. Stiles gasps and hopes to hell Derek wasn't paying that close attention to his heart, because he's sure it stuttered.

Derek's face is worn and upset, dark bags under his eyes. If he's sleeping, Stiles knows he's sleeping poorly. He doesn't have to wonder why, mostly because Stiles is feeling the same way, if not exactly, then at least partially.

Stiles makes his way out of the car, pushing the door close with his elbow. Derek stands there, by the corner of the house. Stiles glances up at it, at its second story, the broken windows and the hollow places where they've fallen down completely.

Did Derek imagine the house whole, like it used to be, way back when? Or was it different in the dream, another shape, placed somewhere else? It did it have another floor, because he doesn't think they could fit everyone (including Erica and Boyd) otherwise.

He wishes he could ask Derek. He wishes he could dare to.

"We need to talk," he says, making his way closer to Derek. He stops a few steps from the Jeep, not even ten feet from Derek. He thinks the space might do them good.

Derek folds his arms over his chest, doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. His jaw is locked and his eyes have narrowed. If they were close enough, Derek would slam him against a wall, Stiles can tell. Great.

"We should--"

"There's nothing to talk about."

Well, at least Derek is speaking. That's something. "Bullshit," he says, outright, because it's true. Derek can tell by his heartbeat that it's true. "You can't just--" _pretend this didn't happen, act like I didn't hear you._ Ignore me. Stiles takes in a shaky breath, extends his arms, lets it fall to his sides. "You have to--"

"Go away." Derek face goes blank, empty, eyes hollow.

"No," Stiles takes a step forward, and by the way Derek flinches, barely visible, there and gone, Stiles stops himself. He takes a step back. He gets it. "We have to talk." 

You need to talk, Stiles can't help but think. And you can only talk to me, so...

Derek's hands curl around his opposite forearms. Stiles can't see it if the claws come out, not from this angle. God, he's not prepared to do this. He never was. He never could be.

"Derek--"

Derek stares right at him. "Just go away."

"No! No, I'm not going, okay? I'm not going. I'm not going because--" _I've lost them too_ , he thinks, and he gasps, because he hadn't realized he'd been feeling that until this second. 

He opens his eyes and wants to say something but can't even form the words. Instead he groans, turns around and takes a step away from the house, pressing both his hands into his eyes. God. This is all too fucked up. This doesn't make any sense. He can't. He can't be feeling this. He didn't know them. He never did.

He turns to face Derek, letting his arms fall to his side, tired and exhausted, and he can feel his face in a grimace. 

And for a second, just a moment, Derek's eyes soften and his face changes and he looks as wretched as he did at the vet's back room, eyes pained and mouth pressed tight. Stiles takes in a shaky breath, the end of a whimper on his lips. Because if it's hurting him, it has to be killing Derek. And there's no way Derek is going to say a word, not to anyone, about it.

"Derek," he pleads, knows it sounds childish and pained and begging, but he doesn't care. 

Derek snorts, a wet sound, a pitiful sound. He sounds just like back then. He turns around, walking back to the house from the side. "Just go away, Stiles."

Stiles just stands there, watching Derek walk away from him, watches his back until he can see him no more.

"I'm sorry," he says, whispers, and he knows Derek can hear him. He hopes he's listening. "I'm sorry, Derek. But we have to--" 

_We have to talk,_ he thinks. _We need to talk about this. We've been ignoring it and I'm worse off, it hurts more, and you have to feel it too._

"We should talk about it." And maybe this is easier, with Derek not here and Stiles talking to the air and the forest and the house that held Derek's dreams. "We should. Not now, but... at some point? We should talk." He pauses, thinks of all the things he wants to say. "I want to talk."

He can't. He can't tell him more, because though it might be easier, he'd rather not. Not yet. Because if he's gonna tell Derek about how at night he dreams of pups and Derek's smile and a house full of betas, then he needs to do it to his face.

He makes his way to the Jeep and gets inside, pausing with his hand on the stick. "I wish you'd trust me," he confesses, face in a grimace. He takes in another breath and starts the engine, pulling back to make the turn.

As he starts down the trail out of Hale property, Stiles hears a howl, empty and sorrowful, and Stiles wishes he could match it, make it echo what he's feeling.

He makes his way down the trail, and takes the turn to the road.

"I miss them too," Stiles says, whispers, finally, too low for him to hear, probably too low for Derek to hear. He doesn't know. He'll never know.

Stiles presses a little harder on the gas and drives away. He doesn't hear any more howling.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a part two. I swear. I'm working on it! That and I can totally swear I'm not ending it like that! Even I'm not that evil (not gonna comment on that, though, because I have done it before, but whatever). Again, not my fault!


End file.
